June 21, 2012

Victims of the Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacre: Charles de Teligny

He was a fairly young man when he died, only thirty-seven. Charles de Teligny had lived an adventurous life that ended in the most horrendous way. He was born in 1535 and had the good fortune of befriending L’Amiral Gaspard de Coligny, that great lion of the Huguenots, and being under his patronage. Teligny was a man of multiple talents. He was a writer and a fighter, the latter occupation placing him under Coligny during the Wars of Religion. 

Such connections extended into marriage. In 1571 --- just one year before his death --- he married Louise, the admiral’s daughter. It was a difficult and dangerous time to be alive, yet when he moved to La Rochelle, already known as a Huguenot haven, he must have believed that many of the dangers had slipped away. The massacre still loomed like a dark cloud in his future.

The newly-married Teligny had very little time to enjoy wedded bliss. He was soon summoned to Paris on a political matter, seeking to end hostilities between France’s blood-soaked Catholics and Protestants. It was said that King Charles IX considered him a personal friend. But none of that saved him. When the bell rang at Saint Germain l’Auxerrois at midnight on August 24^th, 1572, Teligny was staying at the Louvre, which was then a royal palace. He was asked if he would convert to Catholicism and deny the Protestant faith that had sustained him in a life full of hardship.

He said no.

Even after death --- even after he became one of many men, women, and children lying lifeless and silent in bedrooms and hallways and streets and porticoes throughout Paris and beyond --- the abuses did not end. In 1625, after his relatives had secured his body and buried it properly at the Teligny ancestral home, the Bishop of Castres, Jean VI de Fossé, had his remains dug up and unceremoniously deposited in the nearest river. It was not enough that Teligny had died so horrendously. ‘Insult to injury’ was the order of the day.

Charles de Teligny

So now we have Charles de Teligny’s story, part one of bestowing an identity to a victim his executioners wished to remain nameless . . . what about a face? A contemporary portrait shows him achingly young, with a long, slender face, handsome French features, and thin brown hair pulled back underneath a smart black feathered beret. He glances at the painter almost shyly, while his neatly-trimmed mustache and beard fail to hide the mouth turned up just the slightest bit in a smile. He is dressed in the Protestant austerity of the day, in a high-necked black doublet with a modest lace ruff. 

It always gives me a thrill to put faces and identities to the victims of the St. Bartholomew’s massacre. Charles de Teligny was not a nameless casualty. He was a man, with a face, an identity, and a life all his own. Seeing such portraits is like thwarting those who took his life. One by one the faces emerge. I wish I could see pictures of them all.

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

June 20, 2012

Luther's Table Talk: The "Real" Reformer

Want to know the real Martin Luther? Check out his “Table Talk.” Now, picture this. Martin and his wife Katharina von Bora (known by her illustrious husband as “My Lord Katie”) continually entertained interesting people at their dinner table, including relatives, friends, students, and like-minded theologians. Unadulterated glimpses of the German reformer are enshrined within the sometimes- serious, sometimes-lighthearted pages.  If you want to know the sort of man Luther most often was, the sort of man he would be if you could just run across him in the street, read his Table Talk. There were few subjects he did not cover.

For a sampling, he spoke of the nature of worship in this way: “Upright Christians pray without ceasing; though they pray not always with their mouths, yet their hearts pray continually, sleeping and waking; for the sigh of a true Christian is a prayer. As the Psalm saith: ‘Because of the deep sighing of the poor, I will up, saith the Lord,’ etc. In like manner a true Christian always carried the cross, though he feel it not always.” He also says, “The Lord’s prayer binds the people together, and knits them one to another, so that one prays for another, and together one with another; and it is so strong and powerful that it even drives away the fear of death.”

Martin Luther never minced words when it came to his enemies. While some might find his descriptions offensive, many admire his courage to “say it like he meant it” concerning those who had incurred his displeasure. Of Erasmus he said, “Erasmus of Rotterdam is the vilest miscreant that ever disgraced the earth. He made several attempts to draw me into his snares, and I should have been in danger, but that God lent me special aid. In 1525, he sent one of his doctors, with 200 Hungarian ducats, as a present to my wife; but I refused to accept them, and enjoined my wife to meddle not in these matters. He is a very Caiaphas.”

Luther was a modest man who hated simpering flattery. He objected to those who followed his doctrine in such a way that he thought elevated him to some sort of idol status. This was the last thing he wanted. Martin Luther had harsh words for those who attempted to raise his importance: “That impious knave, Martin Cellarius, thought to flatter me by saying, ‘Thy calling is superior to that of the apostles;’ but I at once checked him, replying sharply, ‘By no means; I am in no degree comparable to the apostles.’ He sent me four treatises he had written about Moses’ temple and the allegories it involved; but I returned them at once, for they were full of the most arrogant self-glorification.”

There are short glimpses as well. In Table Talk, Luther expounded on the constantly-changing borders of European nations and the misfortune that frequently fell upon various countries. “Our Lord God deals with countries and cities, as I do with an old hedge-stick, when it displeases me; I pluck it up and burn it, and stick another in its stead.”

I highly recommend Table Talk to anyone who thinks they know the “real” Luther and anyone who wishes to. It is an entertaining read.

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

June 19, 2012

My Matanzas Scripture Verses: A Commentary

Since Reformation greats like Luther and Calvin wrote commentaries on various parts of the Bible, I wanted to try my hand at writing a commentary for the two verses I read aloud as part of my Protestant pilgrimage to Matanzas Inlet in March of this year. Hopefully I can also explain why they were selected. 

I knew I was “chosen” to go to Matanzas, to remember the dead, to pay my respects, and to be a witness to the men’s courage and suffering. Choosing the right Scripture verses was a difficult task. But there was one that jumped out at me immediately: Revelation 12:11. “They overcame him by the blood of the Lamb and by the word of their testimony; they did not love their lives so much as to shrink from death.” This is a powerful verse that explains how we are to love Christ and His truth more than anything, even our very lives, which humans are intrinsically programmed to guard ferociously. 

“Him” is considered to mean Satan and his minions and the many traps that he has laid and continues to lay for humankind. “By the blood of the Lamb” alludes to the bloodshed Jesus underwent to sanctify His people and atone for their transgressions. “By the word of their testimony” is a powerful allusion to the countless martyrs of Christendom and thus to those who fell at Matanzas as well. The term “Lamb,” referring to Christ, is used many times in Revelation and is symbolic of the lambs that were once used in Jewish ceremony to atone for sin. Christ, the “new lamb,” atoned for our sins and took away the need for sacrificial animals, becoming the “ultimate sacrifice.” (For a song that gives me shivers every time and reminds me of the martyrs of Matanzas, check out “Martyr Song” by Rick Pino). 

The second verse I chose was 1 Corinthians 16:13: “Be on your guard; stand firm in the faith; be courageous; be strong.” When I first came upon this verse while searching for Scripture to recite on my pilgrimage, I felt chills. This was one of the most perfect matches I had ever made. The words “be on your guard” seem to have two different meanings in this context, first that sinful humans are easily distracted by sin and must guard against pitfalls, and second that in times of persecution it is especially important to be aware of one’s surroundings and to know one’s priorities.

“Stand firm in the faith” is a clear, no-nonsense phrase. No matter what, we are not to abandon Christ and His message. It is expected that we will seek the strength and courage necessary for our trials--- of course, that strength and courage is available only with God’s assistance. “Be courageous” and “be strong” are along the same lines . . . never deny and never fear, for the Lord is with you. This verse, spoken at Matanzas Inlet where so many Protestant believers died for their faith, touched my heart. The Matanzas martyrs remembered John 15:13: “Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.”

Jesus was the greatest friend of all.

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

June 18, 2012

St. Augustine's Founder is Not My Cup of Tea


In St. Augustine, Florida, the Nation’s Oldest City, there is an impressive bronze statue that sits in front of a museum / city hall that was once an impressive Victorian hotel. City founder Pedro Menéndez de Avilés y Alonso de la Campa stands proudly atop the base in 16^th century glory. There are wreath-laying ceremonies, birthday celebrations, and Founders Day shout-outs to this man, yet somehow in this fanfare the conquistador’s darker nature is ignored. This is the part we should never forget. In September and October 1565, beginning at the bloodbath at French Fort Caroline and ending with the second massacre at Matanzas near St. Augustine, Florida, he was responsible for hundreds of Protestant deaths. And there is no doubt about that fact.

An 1858 guide book by George Fairbanks, entitled “The history and antiquities of the city of St. Augustine, Florida, founded A.D. 1565” sums it up quite well: The Adelentado, taking Jean Ribault behind the sand hills, among the bushes where the others had their hands tied behind them, he said to these and all the others as he had done before, that they had four leagues to go after night, and that he could not permit them to go unbound; and after they were all tied, he asked if they were Catholics or Lutherans, or if any of them desired to make confession.

He goes on: Jean Ribault replied, ‘that all who were there were of the new religion,’ and he then began to repeat the psalm, ‘Domine! Memento Mei;’ and having finished, he said, ‘that from dust they came and to dust they must return, and that in twenty years, more or less, he must render his final account; that the Adelentado might do with them as he chose.’ The Adelentado then ordered all to be killed, in the same order and at the same mark, as had been done to the others. He spared only the fifers, drummers, and trumpeters, and four others who said that they were Catholics, in all, sixteen persons.

Fairbanks further writes: At some point on the thickly-wooded shores of the Island of Anastasio, or beneath the shifting mounds of sand which mark its shores, may still lie the bones of some of the three hundred and fifty who, spared from destruction by the tempest, and escaping the perils of the sea and the savage, fell victims to the vindictive rancor and blind rage of one than whom history recalls none more cruel, or less humane. But while their bones, scattered on earth and sea, unhonored and unburied, were lost to human sight, the tale of their destruction and sad fate, scattered in like manner over the whole world, has raised to their memory through sympathy with their fate, a memorial which will endure as long as the pages of history.

Left: Pedro Menendez de Aviles at Lightner Museum in downtown St. Augustine
Right: Jean Ribault's massacre marker at Matanzas

This is Pedro Menéndez de Avilés’ legacy. I have heard (although I have not yet had the chance to substantiate it) that the faculty of Flagler College, a historic liberal arts college in St. Augustine that was once built as a hotel by Victorian mogul Henry Flagler, has in the past refused to pay homage to Menéndez because of his butchery of the Huguenots. But what of the “unknown assassins”? What of the Spanish soldiers who not only thought they were doing their religious duty but did it gladly, deriving pleasure from it, then returning to St. Augustine and kissing their wives and children before gleefully building their newly-founded colony?

Forgiving is not forgetting. 

There is much talk of Menéndez’s accomplishments and little of those he had put to death. His memory is exalted; theirs are obscured. Whenever I see a statue or portrait of Menéndez I think of Huguenot men of all ages kneeling on the beaches of Matanzas with their hands tied behind them. I think of the bloodbath that Menéndez not only ordered but almost certainly took part in, and of the unceremonious way the Protestant victims were left and forgotten. No voice. No rights, even to life. No chance. Yet this Spanish Captain-general gained popularity in the following generations and took on an important place in St. Augustine. This has always been greatly disturbing to me. 

Some might choose to show honor to Menéndez’s impressive commemorative statue in downtown St. Augustine, but I much prefer a quieter, more secluded spot . . . the hidden dunes and old markers proclaiming that nearly two hundred and fifty men chose death over conversion and remained true to their faith. I would rather respect them for their courage and mourn the passing of men with dreams in their eyes and the hope of freedom in their hearts. Pedro Menéndez de Avilés and his conquistadors have become larger than life despite their evil deeds. What of those they killed so unjustly? Jean Ribault’s legacy is something I would much rather admire. ‘Lord, remember Jean Ribault,’ the ill-fated French commander said, personalizing David’s Psalm 132. I know the Lord will. And I will as well.

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

June 17, 2012

The Lutheran Book of Prayer

A while ago I received a small, burgundy-colored hardbound book called the “Lutheran Book of Prayer,” but I have neglected to really “get into” it until now. The very first thing I read inside the book proved to be inspirational. It was a quote from Martin Luther, written in 1537, and is so very true: “Let this be for you an encouragement, that with all diligence and earnestness it may become your habit to pray. For next to the preaching of the Gospel, in which God speaks with us and gives us all His grace and blessings, the highest and foremost work we can do is to speak with Him through prayer and receive from Him what He gives us.”

The Lutheran Book of Prayer is a great little volume for those seeking specific prayers. Some of the sections include prayers for the church, prayers for the world, and prayers of the sick. Some sections include morning and evening prayers for each day of the week. While many might not be able to “use” some of the prayers for specific organizations and in particular situations, there are also “generalized” tidbits such as “Selected Psalms” and the Ecumenical Creeds (those that every Christian, no matter the denomination, is expected to confess). The creeds include the Athanasian Creed and the Nicene Creed. 

I happened to come across part of the “Prayers For Our World, Nation, and Community” chapter, the prayer for our armed forces: “O Creator of the universe, You did not form Adam from the dust of the world so that his children would spill their brothers’ blood in that dust.” My mind flew immediately to the St. Bartholomew’s Day massacre and the many atrocities committed during the Reformation era and beyond. The light of the Gospel came only with great bloodshed. It is impossible to read the thoughts of Luther (this book is made up of many of his writings), Calvin, and other Reformers without remembering the dead. 

All in all, while I often forget the gems hidden within it, I think the Lutheran Book of Prayer is a nice little volume through which one must wade to get to the “good stuff,” the things that are relevant to each individual life. To my fellow Lutherans, consider it money well spent.

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

June 16, 2012

Louis, Prince de Condé: Huguenot Prince

Louis is considered by many to be the “third wheel” in the Huguenot triumvirate of 16^th century French Protestant leaders. In that time of mayhem and unbridled violence it was necessary that France’s beleaguered Huguenots might have a strong set of ringleaders to guard their rights, defend the faith, and provide social protection. The two other members of this unofficial group, Jeanne d’Albret (see my post of June 04), and Admiral Gaspard de Coligny (see my post of March 09) were also powerful movers and shakers who kept the Huguenots’ tenacious hold at least partially secure throughout the rampant brutality of the era.

But who was Louis de Condé? He was born to Charles de Bourbon in 1530 and was the brother of Antoine, who famously married Jeanne d’Albret and firmly refused to give a thought to her Protestant doctrines. Thus, Louis was the uncle of that lion of the Wars of Religion, Henri IV de Navarre. A few prominent members of Louis’ branch of the Bourbon family tree, the Condés, became known for their unabashed Protestantism and were despised because of that fact.

Louis’ record was far from spotless. In 1560 he allegedly took part in a plot to kidnap boy-king François II. The end result of this plot would have been involved becoming more powerful than the hated House of Guise, which was firmly entrenched in Huguenot minds as a Catholic faction much in need of a walloping dose of humility. This clandestine plot fell short and was seen by wary Catholics as a threat to the fabric of French society; many Protestants lost their lives due to this altercation.

The Wars of Religion raged in the 1560s, when Louis was only in his third decade of life. He proved himself an able officer but was taken prisoner at the Battle of Dreux. Apparently he was still in some position of influence, for at the age of thirty-three he was called upon to approve the Peace of Amboise. This edict allowed the Huguenots to breathe a sigh of relief, for it decreed freedom at least in part. Louis wormed his way into court affairs quite persuasively and agreed to curtain Huguenot ambitions so he might find himself better accepted by the French Crown. When a hoped-for promotion did not come, he fled in 1567 and found himself once again swept up in the Wars of Religion.

Louis I, Prince de Conde

His life and death may have seemed contrary to one another at this point. At first he failed Admiral Coligny’s aspirations by approving the controversial Peace of Longjumeau in 1568, but then, in 1569, he found himself rushing to strengthen Coligny’s defenses and rescue the very man whom he had recently disappointed. It would be the last decision we would ever make. While we might be tempted to praise the Huguenot triumph that resulted from his final battle, Louis de Condé’s end, sadly, was far from heroic. He was assassinated in a scrap that stemmed from the battle, and his body was abused and mocked in turn. It was an impious end to a once-powerful man.

What of Louis the man as opposed to Louis the prince and soldier? Contemporaries said he was hunchbacked, a fact which must have earned him much ridicule throughout his life. A contemporary portrait shows a man with reddish hair swept seamlessly up over his head, and a carefully-trimmed mustache and short beard. His dark eyes, heavily-lidded, show an expression that can almost be called tiredness, while his nose is prominent but not overly so. He is dressed in the conservative Huguenot fashion --- a black ensemble that reaches to the throat and is topped with a modest lace ruff --- and some sort of neck-chain.

I often look at portraits of Protestants who lived in this era and see the knowledge, forewarning, and perhaps tired acceptance in their eyes that martyrdom most assuredly awaits them. While Louis de Condé avoided such an end, his own death was far from glamorous. He was only thirty-nine at that event. He left a wife, Francoise d’Orleans, and sons Charles, Louis, and Benjamin. His first two sons were three and two at their father’s death. The last son was born the year Louis died. 

He had also had eight children from a previous marriage. Rumors that he had had a child with his mistress dogged his young adult life. Louis himself refused to admit it. We are still uncertain of the truth. What is certain is that he did indeed engage in practices that were contrary to the Huguenot sense of austerity. At the death of Louis de Condé, France’s Protestants lost an able leader. They would still have Admiral Gaspard de Coligny for another three years. 

His end would be even less heroic.


(c) 2012 Joyously Saved

June 15, 2012

“The Church in the Desert”

After the revocation of the Edict of Nantes in October 1685, Protestants in France found there was a third option besides converting to Catholicism or being killed for their beliefs; they blended quietly into the background, moving outside of the cities and towns, worshiping in the open air and settling in rugged mountainside villages that were easily defensible and where their presence would not easily be detected.

Many Huguenot families escaped to the Cévennes region. They roamed the wild vistas and set up shop in the prehistoric gorges. Many might have seen it odd that such a clandestine lifestyle was still necessary. Sectarian violence was expected of the Reformation-era 16^th century and perhaps even the religiously-explosive 17^th century, but by the mid 1700s it would seem that the world had entered a time of relative civility. 

Yet persecution still raged for the Huguenots in this “civilized” era, with periods of relative peace punctuated by sudden and dreaded raids by successive generations of dragoons. Ministers who were caught preaching the Gospel in the Reformed manner were often hanged or otherwise jailed. The Huguenot pastors of this time were particularly courageous. Though harassment was no longer as widespread as it once was, the possibility of martyrdom was still in existence even throughout the 1750s and beyond, and the Huguenots of the Cévennes were prepared to follow their ancestors’ example. 

There were times that the Protestants of Cévennes remembered the Huguenot victories during the Wars of Religion and fought back, such as the rebellion of the Camisards (Huguenots of Cévennes) in 1702. After the “Great Burning of the Cévennes,” which took place in 1703, the Protestants dug deeper into their clandestine pastoral life and continued their wilderness wandering.

Why was this time of hiding known as the “church in the desert”? This was supposedly due to Scriptural references to the Hebrews meandering through the desert sands for forty years. Like the Israelites, God heard, protected, and provided for the Huguenots even during these days of neglect and intolerance. The “desert years” ended in 1787 with the publishing of the Edict of Versailles. Though their troubles were not entirely over, the Huguenots were, for nearly the first time in their existence, finally considered French citizens.

(c) 2012 Joyously Saved